“Yes, grandmother.”
“Your Aunt Amy knows this friend?”
Ethel tried to imitate that tranquil, affectionate tone.
“No, grandmother, she doesn’t. He’s just a boy I met at the studio where I used to take singing lessons.”
“And you think she would not care for him?”
“I know she wouldn’t,” Ethel answered candidly. “I don’t care for him so very much myself; but we’re interested in the same things, and nobody else is.”
“In music?”
“Yes. He’s—” Ethel began, but she stopped.
What was the use of going on, and being told again how absurd she was? Mrs. Mazetti was silent, too, but not because she felt discouraged. She was thinking, trying to understand.
“You are still always thinking of the singing?” she asked softly.